


eat u alive

by millennialfalcon



Series: my personal crusade to top every clone [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 79's (Star Wars), F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Sub!Echo, echo is a soft bby, fem!reader - Freeform, i don't know how clone armor works and i refuse to learn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millennialfalcon/pseuds/millennialfalcon
Summary: 79’s is hot, loud, crowded, and the perfect place to show your admiration for your favorite arc trooper
Relationships: CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo/Reader
Series: my personal crusade to top every clone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196240
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	eat u alive

**Author's Note:**

> so my new personal crusade to top every clone continues. this was particularly fueled by the song "eat u alive" by marian hill, from which i stole the title. mostly this is me projecting my deep desire to be in a loud bar surrounded by strangers but with my girls nursing a tequila cran as i make condescending comments to a man who thinks he’s flirting with me. anyway i love echo my sweet bby

“Can I tell you a secret, Echo?”

79’s is loud. It always is, thumping music and the combination of dozens of half-shouted conversations melding together to form a cacophony that rises to the ceiling and fills every crack and crevice and back corner to be found in the club. It’s the kind of loud you feel in your chest, like it’s changing the rhythm of your heartbeat. It’s dark, too; colored lights dance around the place, but they do little to illuminate the surroundings. Not that the patrons mind – in fact, the blanket of sound and lack of light creates the perfect environment for nights that feel fuzzy in the mind the next morning.

A feeling often sought after by the dedicated soldiers of the Republic whenever they found themselves with a free evening back on Coruscant. The boys of the 501st were no different. A clique of them had shuffled into a rounded booth, their broad bodies filling every available space in the horseshoe seating area. You had tagged along, naturally, and soon found yourself squeezed between Jesse and Fives, the two ARCs supplying you with all the drinks and attention you desired.

But that was over an hour ago. Now the booth was near empty. Fives caught the eye and the hypnotic hips of a Twi’lek and had left to join them on the dance floor. Jesse and Tup abandoned the table for the crowded bar. Hardcase had resorted to crawling under the table to free himself from the middle of the group once he spotted a game of sabacc across the room. Kix had left early.

Only two bodies still occupied the booth. Like oppositely charged magnets, you sit close enough so that barely any space is left between Echo and yourself. 

Echo finds it easy to latch onto your voice under the pounding music, his eyes dancing across your flushed face. “Uh, y-yeah. You – sure thing.” He’s fumbling, and it wasn’t due to the single shot he had downed with you and the boys. Those glasses sit empty at the end of the table, and have been for longer than he cares to admit. No, his heart flutters at the way you’re looking at him, eyes half-lidded and lips parted in a secret smile. You’re so close to him, impossibly close, nearly sitting in his lap with one leg draped over his, your hands fiddling with the high collar of his blacks, his torso free of the hard plastoid armor. Your silhouette flashes in and out of focus with the strobing of the lights, and for less than a second he thinks this might be a dream, a cruel fantasy his lustful mind concocted to ease his stress, something he might come up with when all his brothers had left the showers and it was just him and his hand and the thick steam concealing the rushed pumping of his arm.

But then your fingers graze his chin as you lean in next to his ear, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt this is real. His own brain could never envisage such a perfect scenario. Your lips brush the shell of his ear and he knows, he _knows_ you must feel the tremor that runs down his spine. “You’re my favorite,” you whisper, breath fanning over the side of his neck.

Echo had never been more thankful for the concealing plastid of his codpiece than in this very moment. You lean back to look at him, an easy smile gracing your features. The hand that had been dancing around his jawline moved up to smooth back his hair. You pull at a loose curl that had given into the heat and humidity of the crowded club. “Don’t tell your brothers, though. They’ll get jealous.”

He gulps. He actually gulps. Like a man famished, his throat seems to have dried up, tongue heavy in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he settles for gripping the edge of the booth on either side of his legs. A tingling _something_ emanates from his diaphragm, and he struggles to find words. “You don’t —“ He coughs, fisted hand coming up to cover his mouth. A strange voice is dislodged from his throat – it's strained, thick, like it's clawing itself out of him. “You wouldn’t be saying that if – if you weren’t drunk.”

He knows it’s a weak protest. His preening from your praise is painfully evident, and he’s surprised every single eye in the entire bar isn’t zoned in on his hot cheeks and stiff posture, on the sweat beading along his hairline. He can feel the heat of your palms through his regulation black turtleneck. One of your hands is sprawled over the mass of his right pectoral, the other like a vice around his tricep. He’s sure you can feel the pounding of his heart beneath your palm.

You lean back from the space between his neck and shoulder, a small frown tugging on your lips. “‘M not _that_ drunk, Echo,” you protest, the end of your words just barely melting into the next. Your gaze shifts to the wall last his shoulder, brows pulling together. “I’m just this side of tipsy. And besides,” you continue, focusing back on his hot face, his wide eyes. “Drunk or sober, it’s the truth. I know what I’m saying. You’re…” The look you give him is contemplative. “Handsome. And kind. And let me have your extra ration bars.” One of your hands snakes up to grasp his shoulder, the muscle hard under your touch. “And, actually, I have another secret for you.”

You don’t wait for his permission to lean in again, lips catching his jaw, and it takes all that’s in him not to groan at the fleeting feeling. He white-knuckles the edge of his seat in an attempt to hang onto his sanity. He feels a warm puff of breath against his temple. “Here’s my secret,” you preface with a smile hidden in your low voice.

“I see the way you look at me. When you think I’m not looking.”

A punch in the gut. That’s what it feels like, once Echo’s brain catches up with him. Once his synapses start firing after they burn out for a second or two. Time seems to slow, one moment lazily drifting into the next, and he doesn’t know if it’s the heavy bass filling the bar that’s pounding in his chest or his own heart threatening to beat out of his ribcage. He lets out a controlled breath, fighting the heavy exhale as it tries to lodge in his throat. His voice is far more raspy than he wants it to be. He doesn’t know what else to say, and his reply enters the air lamely, limping. “I…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you whisper against his ear, all breath. “I like it.”

Then you’re mouthing along his neck, his jawline, and he can’t stop the groan that escapes his lips, embarrassingly loud under normal circumstances but barely audible in the raucous atmosphere of 79’s. Your leg that had been toying with his own finally lodges between his thighs, your knee pushing against his codpiece, the offending piece of armor he was so thankful for mere minutes ago suddenly the bane of his existence as it separates himself from any semblance of your touch. He’s hard, painfully so, and it’s so difficult to concentrate on one single thing for too long because your hands are wandering over his shoulders, his chest, his arms, until they find his own hands and delicately pry his fingers from the edge of the booth. You maneuver one to your waist and the other to your breast, squeezing your fingers over his own so he feels the soft flesh beneath your shirt.

He’s given up on trying to calm his breathing, the thin string of resolve unraveling quicker than, well, something that unravels pretty damn fast. He can’t form coherent thoughts despite his best efforts, and in this moment his best efforts are hardly any good at all. The only thing he’s good at is moaning into your mouth as your lips finally find his, gladly soft and compliant beneath your skilled mouth. You hum against him, lick at his chaste lips until they part and slip your tongue against his own.

His hand, now free of yours, squeezes your breast again and you sigh into his mouth. There’s so much happening – the music, the lights, the single shot of spicy Corellian whiskey coursing through his veins, your body moving against his, rutting subtly against his thigh, the sounds you’re making as he explores your chest. The dull din of chatter reaches his ears over it all, and suddenly he’s reminded where exactly you are, how your booth isn’t exactly hidden enough, who exactly is mingling across the club.

Something small but mighty tugs at Echo’s resolve, consent vigilance rearing its head, and he pulls away from your lips. It’s not matter to you, and you begin to kiss down the thick tendons of his throat.

“Are you —“ he begins, but his voice putters out into a groan as you graze your teeth over his Adam’s apple. He tries again, tries to be firmer with his trembling words. “Are you sure you’re not drunk? I don’t —“ Again, he’s cut off by your ministrations. Your hands find their way under his shirt, warm palms none too gently skimming over the planes of his abdomen. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Don’t wanna take advantage of you.”

“You’re not,” you answer easily, slipping down his thigh until you’re sitting on his knee. The edge of the table digs into your back as you work at something near his hip.

Echo’s eyes search your face for any sign of hesitance, or resigned obligation, or intense inebriation. While your cheeks are still flushed and eyes half-lidded, he only finds you intently focused on whatever your hands are messing with, chin tucked into your chest as you stare down at his body. But that doesn’t stop him from asking again. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay with —“

“Echo,” you say sternly, his name rolling off your tongue like the last few drops of whiskey abandoned in his shot glass. Something clicks at his hip, and he looks down to see you’ve unclasped the front of his codpiece and are pushing it to the side. His gaze rises back to you, but you’re already looking at him from beneath your lashes. “ _Shut up_.”

He can’t do anything even if he tried as you leave his thigh to sink to your knees between his spread legs, head tucking under the table. You palm at his cock over his pants, and again, his brain decides to short-circuit and he nearly yelps at the wonderful pressure. Slower than he’d like, he begins to realize your intention and straightens his posture, wide brown eyes staring down at your shadowed face. “What’re you doing?”

You quirk a brow up at him, hand splayed over his cloth-covered erection. “What does it look like?”

His eyes snap to the end of the table and beyond, where he can still make out his brothers among the crowd. No one is paying attention to you both, your booth secluded enough to not garner attention but still within the reach of the strobing, wandering lights that dance across the club. The table is long, meant for a large party, and though the haze of arousal Echo thinks that _probably_ your kneeling frame is hidden from view. But what if it’s not? What if—

“What if someone sees?” he asks, on the edge of frantic. He’s never done anything remotely like this; the most risk he’s taken is a sloppy makeout in a far more hidden corner of this very establishment. To have you take him in your mouth…out here in the open? His insides flutter with nerves and _anticipation_ , he realized. Another weak protest leaves him, but it does not last. “What if – _oh, **fuck**._”

You’ve taken him out of his blacks, his cock large, flushed a rosy brown, and positively leaking for you. The weight of it in your hands makes your mouth water. “Do you want me to stop?” you ask, feigning innocence as you look up at him with doe eyes.

Echo’s breath stutters. His stiff posture falters and he slips down a little in the booth. His head shakes, minutely. “No. Gods, no.” 

The smile you give him edges on predatory. You give him an experimental tug, and his hips nearly leap off the seat. “Then stop asking me if I’m sure.” You stroke him again, your thumb caressing the slit, gathering the precum leaking there. He whines above you, and again his hips jolt into your hand. “I’m _sure_ I want your cock in my mouth. Do _you_ want that, Echo?”

“Shit, yes. Oh yes, _please_.” His tone is tight, and you relish in his desperation.

You hum. Sitting higher on your knees, you let your mouth fall open and some saliva drip from the tip of your tongue and onto Echo’s weeping cock. He mutters an explicative at the sight. You pump him a few more times, your spit facilitating smoother movements. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” you reply, and lick a thick stripe up the underside of his member before taking the glistening head into your hot mouth.

Echo groans, loud, long, and low. It reverberates in his chest, harder than any bass could, and the fear of being discovered in such a compromising position flees his mind in record time. The only thing he’s aware of are your lips wrapped around him, how your tongue does this _thing_ that makes his whole body spasm, how big he looks halfway in your mouth, your hands stroking the rest. He slumps in his seat, not having the strength to keep himself upright. It takes all that’s within not to finish here and now as he watches your cheeks hollow and give him a strong suck. The only sounds he’s able to articulate are moans and groans with some curses sprinkled throughout. He manages to mouth your name under his breath, the word intermingled with a strained sigh as you take him further into the wet cavern of your mouth until your nose brushes against the coarse hair at the base of his shaft. The head brushes the back of your throat and it constricts around him for a moment, your tongue dancing along the underside involuntary, and you pull back slow, saliva glistening along the entirety of Echo’s cock.

“Shit,” he curses through clenched teeth. “Shit, shit, shit. _**Fuck**_.”

You moan around him as your head bobs in earnest, somehow knowing exactly what he needs. He’s dreamed of this, not that he’d ever tell you, but his fantasies are often filled with images very much akin to the visage set before him. He’s woken up with ruined sheets because his mind often runs away with images of you on your knees before him, or sprawled beneath him, or against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist, or else with him on his knees before _you_ , this exact scenario reversed. He’s managed to keep most of the messes hidden from the ever-present prying eyes of his brothers, but no one is perfect. Jesse had given him a hard time, joking about morning wood and sweet dreams, but Fives always slaps him on the back and says he wishes he had a vivid imagination as his _vod_. If only Fives knew who he was dreaming about.

He’s absolutely catapulted from his musings when you gag around his cock a second time, this time enduring the natural reflex to take him impossibly deeper, and his head lolls back against the back of the booth. His hands instinctively come up to cradle your head, not pushing or tugging, simply holding it as you work him. He’s close, his abdomen tightening and growing hot, his release only racing closer as he looks back down at you to see drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.

“I’m close,” he grits out. “Gods, I’m so close. You’re so good. You’re so – _ahhh_ – you’re fuckin’ perfect.” He smooths your hair down, wipes a stray lock from your face. “So pretty.”

Your mouth leaves him for only a few moments to speak, hands taking its place. “ _You’re_ pretty, Echo,” you counter, and kiss the flushed head. “All worked up. So eager. Can anyone else make you feel like this?” You lick a thick vein up the side of his cock until you’re at the tip. “Is there anyone else who can take you like I can?” You envelope him in your mouth and take him to the base again, and again, and again until he’s panting above you.

“No, no one,” Echo finally answers you, his words fitted between hard exhales. “Oh, seven hells. It’s only you. Only you. Fuck. **_Fuck_**. Gonna come.” His words slur and his eyes frantically search your face as you bob up and down on his cock with purpose. A hand comes up to cup his balls and you give them just enough pressure to make him gasp. He thrusts into your mouth, hips jerking off the seat. “Gonna…where?”

You don’t let up, instead opting to tug him closer with one hand by the edge of his thigh plate. You take him deep, groaning at the weight in your mouth, eyes closed as you feel him twitch in your throat.

Echo pants like he’s running a marathon. He doesn’t mean to, but he fists your hair in his hand. “Oh shit…oh fuck…” His voice gets tight and quiet, the music nearly overtaking his words. “Gonna – in your mouth – I’m, _fuck_ , I’m coming.”

And he is, hot, salty ropes down your throat, filling your mouth even as you swallow around him, eager for all he gives you. He sinks lower in the booth as you work him through his orgasm, a pained expression pinching his usually smooth features. He thrusts once, twice into your mouth, muscles of his abdomen taut as he rides the high. You continue sucking on him, even after he feels like a husk of his former self, the stimulation nearly becoming too much; your tongue swirls around his sensitive head, milking him for all he’s worth, wanting to get every drop from him you can. His hips can’t stop stuttering, he gasps, his big hands weakly trying to push you off him. “It’s – I can’t – it’s too much, please.” 

At the last word, you hum around him and he cries out, but the overstimulation only lasts for a second more before you release him with a _**pop**_. You look up at him from under the table, eyes glazed and lidded, face rosy, mouth parted as you breath, heavy.

Echo thinks he feels himself getting hard all over again at the spectacle before him, better than any daydream he could come up with himself. A picture of idealized debauchery, untouchable and powerful and better than any holovid he’s ever seen, though that last one isn’t really a competition. He wishes he could take a picture and save it under lock and key for only himself to enjoy in his most private moments, but since that’s impossible at the present moment, he resigns himself to studying your blissed face in an attempt to commit it to his memory.

Something glistens at the corner of your lip. You reach up and swipe at the stray drop of his seed with your thumb, only to suck the appendage into your mouth like you can’t bear to miss even this drop of him.

Yeah, he’s definitely getting hard again.

Before he can act, you tuck him back into his pants, secure the codpiece over his crotch, and maneuver your way out from under the table. You sit comfortably and reach for a stray napkin among the empty and near-empty glasses that litter the table. You dab at your mouth with the decorum of a senator as you survey the rest of 79’s, no concern or apprehension painted on your face. The only expression Echo can discern in his spent state is something akin to contentment. No one seems to have noticed your less than respectable activities in your little corner of heaven. A small smile graces your features, the angles and planes of your face illuminating with the colorful lights of the club.

Your hand pats Echo’s thigh lightly. “Up and at ‘em, big boy.” You’re nudging him out one side of the booth until he’s standing on unsteady feet. You take his hand and lead him through the growing crowd toward the door.

“Where are we going,” he asks, half dazed but comfortable in following your footsteps. He feels drunker now than he did after his shot of whiskey.

You throw a smirk over your shoulder and there’s a glint in your eye he can see even in the low light. “Everyone’s out tonight, which means the barracks are free. And honestly, I’d rather have someplace more comfortable for you to return the favor.” You push the door open with your shoulder. Echo stumbles out after you onto the bustling Coruscant sidewalk. “I think your brothers can pick up the tab this time, don’t you?”

Echo couldn’t agree more.


End file.
